


Naming

by voksen



Series: WKverse [20]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: BDSM, F/M, Femdom, Flogging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-22
Updated: 2009-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-28 08:13:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/pseuds/voksen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Schoen got her name, aka Masafumi is probably a Schuldig stan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Naming

Karen prefers the whips to anything else.

Paddles are so _boring_ , so plain; they make her feel like a schoolteacher, which is so very not the image she wants. Canes - well, they're a little better. She does like the _swish_ as she brings them down, the crack of them striking flesh, the way you can measure out even red lines in a detailed pattern down back, buttocks, thighs. (And on the feet, that's where canes really come alive.) Floggers are better still, especially her favorite one, with the good thick heavy handle and metal studs at the tips of each thong. She'll still use them all if she has to, if she's paid enough for it one way or another.

But her whip - there's nothing like it, nothing like the power she feels when she coils it in her hands like a snake, tests the long red leather with her fingers, running each inch between her fingers.

She makes the men watch her while she does it. It's part that she loves to be watched, loves having their attention on her, but mostly it's so that she can see the anticipation in their eyes as she strokes her whip like a lover, see the muted fear build up behind it as she flicks her wrist, the sharp _crack_ echoing in her little rented room, loud and telling.

This one she has now, though, he's brave, or maybe he knows what he's doing, came because he wanted pain instead of a nice girl to babble _yes Mistress_ at; there's no fear in his eyes, just desire. (It's not that Karen minds men licking her boots or worshiping her, but that she can get anywhere. _This,_ she takes risks for. It could end her career in seconds if the paparazzi found out she moonlights as a domme. It's worth it.)

He's tied to her St. Andrew's cross, face in, and when she's done checking her whip - sound, of course - she walks slowly around to the front of the cross, brushes her gloved hand down his narrow, pale back, her index finger running over his spine. He's thin, but not so much that she'll have to take extra care; handsome, too, in a sharp-featured, fey kind of way, and the clothes she'd made him take off earlier were expensive, tasteful. She likes this one, in all his defiant bravery.

Karen smiles, though he can't see it, steps back, cracks her whip in empty air again, then uses the momentum to lay the first stripe across his bare ass, reddening it instantly. He doesn't make a sound, despite the way she knows it must have hurt.

"One," she says, and waits.

There's a long pause before he gets the idea: no more, if he doesn't obey. "One," he says. The word's not all the way out of his mouth before she strikes him again, laying the whip just above the first line: she's expensive not just because of who she is or the secrecy or her beauty, but because she's _good_ at this. "Two," he says immediately, and she can feel herself start to get wet under the leather she's wearing. _Three_ and _Four_ are close on its heels, and then she stops again, comes forwards, runs her hand over the welts beginning to swell hot, feels him shudder involuntarily.

"Good," she tells him, rubs the whip over his back, letting the long tail trail down, brush the skin it's already kissed. "Keep counting," she whispers into his ear, her lips not quite touching him, though she gives in to the sudden urge to ruffle her fingers through his thick shock of black hair.

A few steps back and she waits, counts to seven in her head before she strikes again - "Five!" - and then three more seconds and "Six," half-groaned, half-sobbed, lands harsh across the others in a long, cutting line.

Seven-eight-nine-ten are a flurry of strikes across his back, curling around his sides, and he jerks on the cross like her whip is electrified: it's such a pretty sight she forgives him for not counting them out, lets him rest for a moment as she strolls around to stand in front of him again. He's slumped against the cross, letting it hold his weight, mouth open, and she thinks maybe she'll make an exception and have him eat her out before they're done, maybe even let him fuck her.

When she reaches out, tilts his chin up with the butt of her whip, he opens his eyes, looks at her. "Schoen," he says.

She lifts his head further, pushing back, making him bare his throat to her. "What?"

"Beautiful."

Karen can't help her momentary smile, unprofessional as it is: she's always had a weakness for flattery, and he'd sounded so very _genuine_. But she wipes it off her face before she lets him look back down, then cups his cheek with her free hand. "That's earned you five more," she says, and kisses him before she slaps him.


End file.
